


Sonambulists

by jonstargaryen



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Reunion, Show Spoilers, compliant with plot mostly though, follows the theory that the gravedigger is sandor, lots of brienne/tormund flirting, plot diversion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2016-06-03
Packaged: 2018-07-10 07:00:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6971917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jonstargaryen/pseuds/jonstargaryen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Elder Brother had approached Sandor and told him of the High Sparrow’s plans in King’s Landing. He had asked him to assist them in their fight against the Lannisters.</p><p>The Elder Brother was disappointed when Sandor declined. He then asked him where he would go, since he’d now been healed and atoned for his sins, or whatever the hell he’d done by digging graves for the washed up bodies for several weeks. Sandor wanted for nothing but a little bird.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. riverlands

The sound that wakes him is some brief, sudden bump, its source indistinguishable. He lays his palm flat on his forehead and rubs the heel of his hand into his eye socket. He dreamt of a warm breeze, sun playing prettily with red hair in the light of the morning, royal dinners and royal pains in the arse, a particular, particularly blue dress, a prick of a prince and worse of a king, little moments before the fire struck the sea and the castle walls. He has to check first for his dog helmet, and it’s not on the floor nor on the bedside table, then he remembers throwing it into the lake. He checks second for his hair, and that’s cropped shorter thanks to the old man on the island, tiny patches growing over where his burn used to ooze. He acclimates. He’s on his way to her. The castle is far behind them now. A horse waits for him in the stable, kindly traded for a few days of his labor. Before he would have killed the man and taken the horse, but now. Well. It’s different now.

Elder Brother gathered word that Sansa Stark had married a bastard, which had broken his heart though he’d never admit it. But he had decided, with the guidance of the man who’d taken his infection away, to seek her out. To offer himself into her services and to give her, in his own way, the love he wished he could as a normal man would. 

He feels awkward and at times even afraid to see her again after having left her that night, drunk as the drink itself, wired on phobia, sick with love and ignorant at how to show it. He knows she must be older yet, even taller perhaps, more stunning. He knows she’ll be angry to hear how he let Arya leave, how he has no idea where the girl is. And he _knows_ he’ll want to strangle the fucker who gets to love her as a normal man would. But he still wants nothing more than to stand by her side, do her bidding, and help her take the whole bloody continent.

It’s sunny in the Riverlands; the autumnal sun is warm on his face but the breeze nips at his ears, nose, and fingers. He grips the reins tightly, whipping them for speed, getting flashes of her smile and her warmth that make him wish his horse could go faster. Leaves spin around in tiny wind funnels along the path and his hood catches air inside and blows off his head. He huffs and tugs it back on. What remains of his past attire is his sword, the only thing he could not bear to part with. It serves as a reminder of the anger that used to possess him so. And despite the Elder Brother’s urging, he couldn’t part with his only means of protection, his only means of living, his only means of serving. He never learned to melt metal like the smiths who fashioned his sword, nor act in a way he didn’t feel like the odd people in theatre, or cook bread from bags of powder like the bakers at the inn. He only knew how to swing his sword to kill a man. 

The only virtue which he could spin from that was doing it for the little bird. And so he would.


	2. the gift

Sansa pulls her cloak tighter round her shoulders and shivers. Tormund offers her a drink of ale for maybe the sixth time, to which she politely declines. 

“It’ll warm your belly,” he says, pouring himself some more. It was the same sentiment that convinced Brienne, to her surprise.

They had been riding for a full day before Jon agreed to rest. There was no inn he knew of for at least a half a day's ride and everyone was tired. Jon is quiet, not out of the ordinary for him, but his brow is more furrowed, more brooding than usual. He stares at the fire with some idle intent. 

Brienne dribbles some ale down her chin and giggles, clumsily wiping it with a gloved hand. Tormund smiles at her, looks for a moment too long, and gazes down at his feet when he realizes. Sansa carefully lays out her bed roll and tucks herself inside. The tree canopy parts and sways like waves high above them. The sky is a dark violet, the stars are bright and full, the air is crisp and smells of pine. She dozes off for a moment.

Tormund’s laugh wakes her some time later; it comes from deep somewhere in his belly and Brienne is laughing too, but more gently.

“Grotesque, he was,” she says, “giant burn down the side of his face, ugly thing. He had a helmet shaped like a dog’s head.”

Tormund laughs again, “And you took him out? How big was he?”

“Bigger then you.” 

They laugh together and Sansa feels her heart in her throat. A deep breath comes and goes and tears well up in her eyes. She remembers, vaguely, a kiss given briefly before he left her that last time.


	3. the neck

Sandor ties up the horse to a post outside an inn with a faded sign of a bear claw hanging above the door. He hopes to himself that their beds are made out of something better than dry straw. A pudgy man polishes the counter with an old rag. He speaks through gaps in his teeth and smiles gratuitously.

“Hello, ser,” he says toothily, and Sandor grunts in response. It feels comical to be called ‘ser’. “Can I get you a room this evenin’?”

“Yes. But a drink first.” Sandor sits himself gently at a bench. It’s a wonder what a few weeks without riding will do to soften your behind. He curses under his breath. Several drunk men eye his sword and whisper about how he must have stolen it, as he wears no armor to match. Sandor rolls his eyes. 

A fat, friendly woman bustles over with a full tankard of some dark ale, “Room is the second on the left, deary,” she points down a dark hallway. Sandor gives her a nod and she waddles off.

“Do you think he’ll unite the North?” one of the drunk men says, the one who seems to be the least drunk.

“Fuck no, that Bolton is one crazy bastard. Rumor is he killed his own father when he had a trueborn heir. Crazy. Heard crazy things ‘bout him.”

Another with a stupid hat stands up and starts thrusting the air, “Would love to give that pretty Stark a good prodding though,” he and his friends bellow with laughter.

Sandor’s fingers tighten around the handle of his cup. He grinds his back teeth against one another.

The least drunk one shakes his head, “She’s left Winterfell, and Ramsay’s searching for her like a madman. My brother is stationed in there, ’n he’s written me to say that Ramsey was sleeping with the kennelmaster’s daughter. Presume Sansa got jealous and left in the night.”

They all sit quietly and mumble after that, taking more swigs of the grainy ale from time to time. One hits his head on the bench with a loud thump and begins to snore.

Sandor feels something wrong in his chest knowing how Sansa longed to be home in Winterfell, and knowing she wouldn’t be quick to leave after such a long time away. He resists pouring the rest of his ale on the drunken idiots as he walks by.

~

The bed was made of something other than straw: turkey feathers and wool perhaps, and Sandor is thankful for that. He got near to no sleep, though, as his mind couldn’t let go of wondering. He had finally decided to continue north in search of her. Sansa must know of her Aunt’s death by now, so she wouldn’t head for the Eyrie. There was nothing south of The Neck for her and she’d be a fool to seek out Arya (and the other baby Starks Sandor knew little of) without help. The only other place he could think of was the place of the Night’s Watch, where her bastard brother served. Still, it would be stupid of him to pass Winterfell without asking. 


	4. the kingsroad

“Brienne,” Sansa calls out, a little louder and more desperately than she might have intended. 

Brienne slows her horse and waits for Sansa to catch up. “Yes, my lady?” she asks, always dutiful, always serious. Though Brienne is young, a permanent furrow sits between her brow and her lips are always in a firm pout.

“I know it's impolite to eavesdrop, but I heard you last night…” Sansa starts slowly, noticing a blush creep onto Brienne’s face, “speak of a man with a hound’s head for a helm. And... you fought him?”

“Yes, my lady. He was with Arya, and he refused to let me take her even though I swore to your lady mother I’d find and protect her.”

“ _He_ was the man with Arya?” Sansa feels an odd mix of confusion and jealousy. Brienne had told Sansa of seeing Arya and how she had just escaped. She had mentioned Arya’s escort but gave no details and Sansa didn’t think to ask. She assumed it was Arya’s dancing teacher, or someone else Sansa had never met. But Sandor? He was supposed to take Sansa with him...

“If my memory serves me, he goes by the Hound. Did you know him?” Brienne asks quietly, ashamedly. 

Sansa inhales sharply and restrains tears. She can’t understand why the tears are even there. She remembers, in fleeting thought, moments where she aimed to cry to coerce her lady mother or to get Arya in trouble. She knows what it’s like to cry for a loss, to know what you’re crying for and why. But suddenly she feels so overwhelmed and upset that she can’t hold the tears…though she’s not sure who they are for. They are well behind Jon and the others but they can look back at any moment, and she’s worried about being seen. She rubs stiffly at her eyes with her wool sleeve and fixes her posture. Brienne thumbs her reins and suddenly she looks less serious and more solemn.

“Did you kill him?” Sansa asks.

“I’m not sure. The fight was brutal, we both came out in a bad way. I’m not sure what fate met him after that…”

She stops when Sansa lets forth a quiet sob. Sansa pulls her hood over her head.

“I’m sure he deserved the fight you gave him.” Sansa says through jagged breathing, not wanting Brienne to worry, “I know he was stepping between you and your duty to my mother.”

Brienne says nothing, but rides in silence beside Sansa for the rest of the day.


	5. the kingsroad II

Jon suggested they take a wide diversion from Winterfell to avoid Ramsey’s men. From the hill they ride upon Sansa can see Winterfell’s walls, tall, grey stone standing high and strong, defaced by the flayed man banners. The group is quiet for a time. Sansa and Jon don’t speak, don’t even look at one another, but they both share the same sorrow and they carry the burden together.

“Wait, wait, wait, wait…” Tormund starts in rushed whispers. 

A stranger approaches, cloaked, hooded, and without banners on a spotted work horse. He’s distant, but the horse moves with a remarkable speed despite the size of the man who rides him. 

“Cover your hair,” Brienne urges Sansa. 

Sansa complies, tucking her long hair into her hood. She looks at Jon and then down at her chest where she bears the sigil of the Stark house. Reluctantly, she pulls her cloak over the stitching and watches Brienne ride ahead, hand gripped tightly on the hilt of her sword. Tormund follows soon after. The hooded stranger slows at the sight of them. Sansa’s vision fails her and she can’t see his face. Beside her the Red Woman watches closely. Ser Davos floats tentatively between the small caravan and the pair who speak to the stranger. 

Brienne draws her sword at the man abruptly, causing the others who are armed to draw their weapons too, but the stranger raises his arms in a gesture of peace. Sansa’s heart clamors in her chest and she feels close to being sick. What if this is a trick? They are so close to Winterfell. What if there are others? Brienne lowers her sword and looks to Tormund, then back to Sansa. The stranger seems to follow her gaze. He dismounts from his horse and hands the reins to Brienne, who gives him an odd look before snatching them from him. He lifts his cloak and unsheathes his sword with one hand, the other raised high. He places it gently on the ground and walks from it. Pod’s horse rears awkwardly and he tries to shush it.

Sansa tenses further. She looks to Jon, and Jon looks back just as confused, just as worried. Tormund follows the stranger closely, sword drawn and poised to strike. Everyone watches the stranger except Brienne. Brienne watches Sansa.

The stranger looks at Sansa from beneath his hood, and as he grows nearer Sansa notices his full stature. He’s even bigger than Tormund Giantsbane, and it’s a wonder his small horse could even carry him. He walks slowly, fists locked tight, huge shoulders heaving with his breath. Several feet away from Sansa’s horse, he removes his hood and sinks quickly to one knee, head bowed, beside her. Sansa looks at him for a beat and then around at her group. When she looks back, he is still firmly in place. She carefully, shakily swings her leg over her horse and climbs down. She can barely catch her footing when she reaches the road and she feels weak in the knees from nerves.

The stranger’s gaze climbs up slowly from her boots. He keeps his head level for a moment. Sansa sees that one of his eyes is twisted, half his face… 

Half his face is not red or oozing anymore, but pale, scarred tissue. His hair is shorter, cut by the hands of someone who doesn’t know how to use sheers, still parted over the scar. Where the harsh scowl used to be is something indistinctly softer. On his knees he still matches the height of her chest. 

Sansa remembers to breathe. Sandor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh


	6. the kingsroad III

Sandor watches the little bird’s hands fumbling about in her cloak. She picks at her tiny thumb mindlessly with a few of her other fingers. Her breathing is shaken and loud. He rises and soon he’s heads above her, though she’s taller now. He had guessed as much.

Sandor feels conflicted. You put her in a garden with all the most beautiful flowers a man could find and she would be at home among them, but that new, fierce look in her eyes says it would be blasphemy to keep her hidden from the world that way.

A hand, his own, rises on it’s own accordance and brushes the hem of her hood, then pulls it gingerly from her head. As it falls, auburn, fiery waves of hair unwind and fall wildly about her. His hand waits by her face. Her eyes are bluer than ice and her cheeks are pink like roses. All that speaks is the breeze, and the sun does little to warm his skin but his face is burning anyway. The onlookers all watch with care. Sandor takes no time to notice them.

In a moment, or something else, something faster, two small arms wrap around his neck and she’s hanging on with the full weight of herself. He leans forward, grabs her by the back of the legs and pulls her up to hold her. She clings to him fiercely. Somewhere buried in his hood and against his neck he hears her sob. He doesn’t open his eyes; he doesn’t want to see the faces of the people around them wondering why. 

Gods, give him more time to feel this. 

Jon Snow clears his throat loudly and Sandor holds for a moment, then lets the bird down to the ground with so much reluctance he thinks he hears his heart screaming. She smooths her cloak flat and pushes her hair behind her elfish ears. She seems to be holding back a smile. 

“Alright, well, we should be on our way then. Will you join us?” she looks to him and he spots something of a glint in her eye. All he can do is nod. She’s different now. She was something before, and now she’s something miraculous. He can’t even place what’s changed, he just knows.

Brienne waits with Sandor’s horse. Sansa remounts and everyone takes a moment to adjust. Jon Snow and the little bird whisper to one another. Sandor keeps his eyes down while he walks, paying attention to the shadow of the red-haired brute pointing a crude sword at his shoulder blade. He takes the reins from the lady warrior and nods at her, humored by her faces, which all look like she’s smelled some foul thing in the distance. He mounts his horse and waits for Sansa to ride up to him. 

A chill catches his side. A crimson-cloaked woman rides past him, her eyes staring, wide, deranged. He snarls at her, then realizes they’ve crossed paths before. She watches him until her neck can turn no more and by that time the little bird is beside him. She giggles. 

“She’s a strange woman,” she whispers, “Don’t mind her.”

He just grunts in response. He has to tear his eyes away from the little bird for fear of being rude. He doesn’t know where they’re going, but he’ll follow her across Westeros if she asks.


End file.
